Читаем Cat Who Went Up the Creek полностью

“Thanks. It’s exciting, all right! And terrifying, in a way.” Jake grinned sheepishly.

Qwilleran said, “The producers won’t have trouble finding their extras. There are more Paul Bunyans per acre in Moose County than in any other place I’ve known!”

“My dad says we’re descended from Vikings. He tells some good stories.”

Qwilleran drove home in good spirits. Good show! Good dinner! And a few leads for the “Qwill Pen” column and Short & Tall Tales.

The Siamese were waiting with loud vocal complaints and irritably jerking tails that seemed to say, You’re late! . . . Where’ve you been? . . . Where’s our stuff?

“You missed a good show tonight,” Qwilleran told them as he prepared their bedtime treat. He himself had a cup of coffee and a black walnut bombshell from the supply Mildred had given him. Polly would disapprove; too many calories. Where was Polly tonight? He wondered.

He had another bombshell.







chapter thirteen











Wednesday dawned bright and full of promise in Cabin Five. Qwilleran had enjoyed the Saturday Night Brawl, and the melodies of sea shanties were running through his mind. His respite in Black Creek had been satisfying, as respites go. He had found leads for his column, met people, solved their problems, and learned something—about squirrels and black walnut trees. Soon Polly would be coming home—maybe. She might decide to detour through Ohio.

As he opened a can of Extra Fancy Crabmeat, he said to the Siamese, “You deserve this! You’ve been a couple of good eggs the last ten days.” They watched him attentively, their tails gently lapping the floor, until . . . with a convulsive movement, Koko whirled about and dashed for the screened porch. His sudden action was enough to make Qwilleran drop the can opener and follow.

What he saw was a yellow canoe gliding upstream with Doyle at the paddle, making purposeful strokes. The photographer was supposed to be in the darkroom at the art center, processing film for the art book! With a shrug Qwilleran finished feeding the cats and had one of Wendy’s sweet rolls for his own breakfast.

While sitting on the porch with his second cup of coffee, he felt a certain sensation in his left temple and realized that Koko was staring at him. If the cat was up to his old trick of thought-transference, why couldn’t he be more specific? Qwilleran had an uneasy feeling that he had forgotten something . . .

Suddenly he catapulted out of his chair and went to the typewriter. He had forgotten to write a short piece about the furniture locked up in the tower; it was supposed to be a handout at the Antique Village on Friday night! Drawing on “The Legend of the Rubbish Heap,” and the condition of the furniture, and his own imagination, he wrote “The Mystery of the Three Cracked Mirrors.”

More than a century before the Age of Computer Millionaires, fortunes were made on the American frontier by hard-working, risk-taking pioneers. One such entrepreneur built a splendid brick mansion in Black Creek, using local black walnut for interior woodwork and furniture. He had two sons, but his daughter Elsa was his pet. For her he arranged a good marriage into an important family and planned a wedding that was the talk of the county.

On the very eve of the nuptials, however, Elsa eloped with the man she really loved, who happened to be the son of her father’s worst enemy. This was 1900, understand, when grown daughters were expected to obey their parents, no matter what! In fury her father pronounced a solemn curse on Elsa and defaced the black walnut furniture that had been made for her bridal suite. Clenching the fist that wore a large gold signet ring, he smashed it against three mirrors. For a hundred years these damaged goods have been locked up in the mansion that is now the Nutcracker Inn.

Sad to say, Elsa and her true love were among the casualties of the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906.

Without picking up his daily postcard, Qwilleran went to the Antique Village. He chose to bike on his Silverlight; he had had too little exercise on this trip. Playing the necktie game with the Siamese didn’t count.

He was braking at the front door, when a booming voice across the street said, “Hey, Qwill! You look good in that helmet! You should wear it all the time!”

Ernie Kemple was carrying a spinning wheel into the building. Qwilleran said, “I’ll hold the door for you, if you’ll let me park my Silverlight in the office.”

Inside, dealers were bustling about; Janelle was trying to be everywhere at once; a pleasant woman was introduced as Mrs. Munroe, Ernie’s partner; and the man who built recycled furniture had found a stone balustrade to protect the exhibit platform.

Qwilleran said, “I’m a little late with this copy for your handout, but the print shop in Pickax will give you one-day service.”

“I’ll take it down there right away.”

“Better read it first.”

“Better yet, I’ll round up the girls, and you can read it to us.”

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Алексей Изверин , Виктор Гутеев , Вячеслав Кумин , Константин Мзареулов , Николай Трой , Олег Викторович Данильченко

Детективы / Боевая фантастика / Космическая фантастика / Попаданцы / Боевики